


33 Day Guro Challenge

by chelonianmobile



Category: Redwall Series - Brian Jacques
Genre: 33 Day Guro Challenge, Accidental Stimulation, Amputation, Animal Death, Animal Traits, Blood, Blood Drinking, Bodily Fluids, Body Horror, Breastfeeding, Breathplay, Bugs & Insects, Cannibalism, Captivity, Child Abuse, Corpse Desecration, Disfigurement, Dollification, Drowning, Fights, Force-Feeding, Furry, Guro, Hand Feeding, Horror, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Infection, Injury, Kidnapping, Kissing, Love Bites, Macro/Micro, Mind Control, Miscarriage, Mouthplay, Multi, Murder, Neutering, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Hugging, Non-Sexual Bondage, Nosebleed, Petplay, Plants, Poison, Poisoning, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Public Humiliation, Scars, Self-Harm, Self-Mutilation, Size Difference, Slavery, Species Dysphoria, Squick, Strangulation, Suicide, Surgery, Tentacles, Torture, Transformation, Vomiting, Vore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-02-20 01:18:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 11,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2409791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chelonianmobile/pseuds/chelonianmobile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cheating as I'm not filling in order or in 33 days, but the prompts are still fun. Tell me if there's anything specific you'd like to see, and Happy Halloween!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. #18: Ball-Jointed Doll

"Keep up!"

Little Triss tottered after the princess, weighed down under the mountain of petticoats and lace she'd been forced into. The dress was an old one of Kurda's, too long for her, too tight around the shoulders and bunched into folds around the slavegirl's concave stomach, and the dainty silk slippers were too small. Gold rings weighed down her tail until it dragged behind her. Pink ribbons tied too tightly cut off the blood to her ears, which were dusted inside with red powder to provide a demure blush, contrasting with the sticky circles of red-orange paint slicking down her cheekfur and the charcoal darkening her eyelashes and outlining a clownish grin on her face. Kurda's talent with the makeup brush was still developing, and her attempts at grooming had only left Triss with bald patches.

"I'm so-" She gasped as Kurda kicked her shins, once, twice, and yanked her ear.

"Dollies do not shpeak! Now come, ve shall have a tea party."

Triss followed the princess, head up and eyes down as instructed. Carefully, she walked stiff-limbed, straight-backed, as doll-like as she could be, and it became easier as she went, at least until they reached the top of the stairs. The dress was definitely too long. Triss had been stepping on the hem, a piece of lace had come free, and as she tried to turn her footpaw caught in it and she tripped, bumping roughly into Kurda.

"Ow!" Kurda spun, eyes blazing. "Clumsy _schlampe,_ vot did I tell you?" She shoved Triss away; Triss tried to catch herself, failed, and plunged headlong down the stairs, landing with a horrible crack and an explosion of pain.

Triss would later have scrambled memories of the next few minutes, but she recalled her own scream and the pain and the sliding sensation in her hip, her attempts to choke back her screams and the tears washing off her makeup, a ratguard holding a spear to her throat and promising "Don't cry, princess, you can have a new doll!" Kurda ran down the stairs to kick him and shrieked that she wanted _that_ one, and Triss felt a guilty pang of disappointment before one ratguard straddled her and leaned on her belly and another grabbed her injured leg and heaved, and she tried as hard as she could not to scream again as her hip grated too slowly back and finally, finally, popped into place. She lay still, breathing hard through gritted teeth, as the ratguards' calloused paws ran over her, checking for further injuries. She was rolled over, and their claws raked through her fur again before one pulled her to her feet.

"Sound as a bell, princess," he proclaimed, and shoved Triss back at her. Kurda nodded once, and set off down the hall, only getting a few steps before she turned back. Triss had collapsed to her knees, putting her weight on her handpaws, wet face resting on the cool stone.

"Come, dolly, I said ve vould have tea."

"What?" Triss gasped, looking up. "Princess, I'm sorry, I can't walk - my leg..."

Kurda pulled Triss upright again and slapped her face with all her strength. Triss' head jerked back, and Kurda slapped again and again. "Vot did I say? Dollies... do... not... shpeak! Do as I say!" Triss moaned in pain and pointed to her leg, and Kurda pulled their faces close together and hissed "De shtuffink seems to be comink out of your head, dolly. Shall I sew up dat tear?" Triss' lips trembled as Kurda's claws ran over them and she weakly shook her head. "Good. Now valk, or I really shall haff you shtuffed vith straw and put on mine shelf!"

Triss bit back her sobs and limped after the princess, hate boiling in her veins.


	2. #27: Extra Limbs

As soon as he learns to count, he dreams of his claw. In the day it's the last thing anybeast cares about, but at night it shows up like a flag. He dreams of being a mouse, a normal one, not twice the other younglings' height with razor fangs and maturing musk, but the Dibbuns point at the surplus claw and the game is up, they know it's him. He squirms in his sleep, their laughter echoing in his head.

He dreams of more claws sprouting, tearing from his flesh, rows of them growing up and up to his shoulders, from his footpaws to his hips, blood leaking from the new claw-beds as the skin opens for them, bones grating together and pulling apart. He dreams of falling, landing on all fours as the weight of the extra forelimbs splitting away from his body pulls him down. Two, three, ten tails emerge from his spine as the eyes opening on the back of his head watch, teeth force his jaws open and choke him as rows sprout down the inside of his throat, blocking his screams from all of his ears, dozens of fangs tumbling to the ground. He falls face-first into the gathering pile and wakes with a start in tangled blankets.

Bryony wakes before dawn and finds her throat dry and her water beaker empty. She goes to the kitchen to use the pump, and before she opens the door she hears muffled noises. She opens the door and drops the beaker.

Veil is biting down on a dishcloth, another makes a tourniquet around the paw he rests in a red pool on the table. The breadknife is halfway through his claw.


	3. #4: Piercings/Body Modifications

"Dad, I really don't think you should be doin' this yourself."

"Oh, pshaw, young feller, am I to trust the job to your tremblin' paws?"

"They ain't tremblin'!" Cheek tucked his paws behind his back to hide his lie. "Just think this is still gonna hurt 'cos if you take any more o' Sister May's stuff you'll pass out, an' you've been drinkin' so there'll be a whole mess o' bleedin'. Can't we at least leave it till mornin'?"

"No, we can most certainly not," Basil said, dipped the knife in the steaming kettle, and checked the tight bandages around each ear. "Hold the old hear-flap upright, would you, lad? The left one. That's it, nice and straight."

Cheek did so, and looked away. Basil squinted at the mirror in front of him, ran a claw along the charcoaled outline in the inside of his ear, and began to cut. Tiny sawing noises came from the knifeblade as it cut against the grain of the flesh, and Cheek swallowed hard.

"Aw, dad, how can y-"

"Shush! Needle, if y'would." Quickly but carefully, Basil started to sew the cut edges of his ear together, the clean thread pulling smoothly through and bringing the ear to a short neat point. Basil nodded, and guided Cheek's paws to his other ear.

"Looks good," Cheek said, avoiding the stitches. "Impressive. I don't reckon this is summat you coulda practiced on."

"Oh, bit o' barkcloth's not all that different. And I've had worse pains in my life." Despite his words, Basil was gritting his teeth as he started on the second ear. "You, f'rinstance," he added, and chuckled as Cheek snorted.

Finally, the second ear was clipped and sewn, and both stood up short and neat. Basil rinsed the blood from his paws. "Excellent. String, please. Not quite ready to be doin' this bit all the way, better get used t'walkin' that way first." Basil took the string, rested his footpaws on the table, and tied the toes of each together in pairs, leaving him with footpaws cloven in two. "Last bit, please."

Cheek swallowed again, nervously, and eyed the polished branches on the bed.

This part had to be done carefully, and Basil's paws trembled slightly as he worked slowly. The barkcloth straps went around his head, through a collar, under his paws and round his chest, the headstraps not fully tightened yet. Basil picked up the knife again. Cheek covered his eyes and heard wet sounds along with Basil's breath and the occasional drip of blood on the table.

"You can look now."

Cheek peeked through his claws. The wounds were hidden beneath bandages, under which Basil had pulled the skin around the base of the branches. It would heal around them in time. The straps were almost the same colour as his fur, though too broad to be hidden close up, and tight as skin. Basil pulled his chair to the window, stood on it, and struck a dramatic pose against the dying sun. "How do I look?"

Cheek beamed. "Every bit a stag."


	4. #13: Sickness

Groddil left his chair and backed up, trembling, trying not to drop the flagon. Dark wine trickled down his chin, and he licked his lips guiltily. "I'm so sorry, sire, I'm sorry. It-it looked just like my water jug, I wasn't paying attention... I'm sorry." He offered the flagon to the looming wildcat, hoping he would be spared injury. Trunn's eyes were glimmering unpleasantly and there was a smirk spreading under his whiskers. Groddil fell to the dirty floor, covering his head. Trunn nudged him with a footpaw.

"Sit up, Groddil. No, stop shaking, there's no need to panic." When he spoke like that, there was every need to panic, but Groddil sat up. The cat seemed amused, perhaps he'd escape. "You like my wine, eh? Well, then you must have some more."

"Ah, sire?"

"Drink it," Trunn said, almost kindly, pointing to the flagon in the fox's paw. He picked up his plate and offered the half-eaten seagull. "In fact, try this. See how well this wine goes with it?" Groddil knew this was not going to end well, but he picked a few shreds off the meat. Trunn glared at him and pushed the plate in his face, and he took a whole leg and bit into it, slowly at first and faster when Trunn's expression started to darken again. It tasted far better than the unseasoned fish Groddil had been eating, but fear sapped the enjoyment from it. Trunn pushed the rest of the fox's own meal at him, and he finished it up, washing it down with the wine. "Keep drinking," Trunn told him, watching with interest as the fox raised the vessel to his lips again and swallowed, again, until the last drops hit his tongue. "Done?"

"A-aye, sire," Groddil said, pushing himself onto all fours and moving to stand up, feeling more full than he had in seasons. "Thank y-"

Trunn's footpaw hit him hard just under the ribs, and he doubled up, gasping. He tried to get up and was kicked again, grabbed by the scruff and shaken hard. He fell and landed on his back, and the cat's heel come down onto his belly. Groddil panted, feeling his pulse quicken and his stomach churn. He swallowed and coughed, his mouth dry, as Trunn kicked him over onto his front; he tried again to get up and fell, Trunn's footpaw ground into his back, and his face lay in the sour-smelling dust. He saw the drained corpses of insects where the spiders had dropped them, felt the swaying of the moored ship, imagined what Trunn could do to him... Finally, it was too much. Trunn stepped backwards as Groddil coughed again and started to bring the food and wine back up. Slow, hard heaves painfully racked the fox's body, and his eyes watered as acid and alcohol burned his throat raw. By the end, he was shaking, weeping, leaning on his elbows and letting the last trickle fall from his lip. He took deep breaths, trying to calm himself.

"Don't leave that mess there," Trunn purred, teeth glinting. "They do say the dog returneth to his vomit, and a dog-fox is close enough. I hope you won't be returning to your folly."

Groddil swallowed hard again, and comforted himself by recalling other common sayings about the interactions of dogs and cats.


	5. #26: Plants

Shadow, light and slender, took point, followed by Redtooth, while Cluny stayed a cautious pace behind, letting his lackeys test the route. Cluny was still a young rat, though the oldest of the group, but big and heavy with muscle. Shadow sniffed along, shook flimsy branches and selected the strongest, checked for traps. Redtooth bumbled along behind him.

"The scent is strong this way," Shadow murmured, so softly it was almost lost in the sounds of dripping water and humming insects. No frogs croaking or monkeys calling. Not with Cluny on the prowl.

"Heh, stupid creatures, bats. So much time in the air, y'know, blows their brains right out." Redtooth waved a paw beside his ear and whistled to demonstrate.

"Shut up, fool, they might be stupid but they're not deaf," Cluny hissed. "We need stealth on our side if we're to take on creatures who can fl-"

Redtooth, unable to pay attention to his chief's words and his own steps at the same time, had stepped off the branch at the wrong moment. The sudden removal of his weight caused the branch to shake, and Cluny might have been able to cling on if the branch wasn't wet and rotting partially through and a large leaf hadn't at that exact moment slapped him directly in the face. As it was, he slid off with an angry yell, leaving clawmarks in the branch. Redtooth and Shadow ran to the edge, but were too late to do anything but hear a tremendous splash.

Cluny surfaced, hacking up and spitting out water, and looked around to see only muddy green. Far above him, a pink leafy ring surrounded a circle of sky. Funny-looking plant. Oh well, it was better than breaking his back on the ground. If only slightly, he amended, as he realised the liquid wasn't quite water; it was unpleasantly viscous, oily, and stank of rotting flesh, scummy pondwater, and bile, overlaid with sickly-sweet nectar and with a noticeable undertone of a neglected latrine. Cluny wasn't one to be disgusted easily, but he still found himself coughing hard, struggling to breathe in the wet clinging fumes, not enough fresh air able to reach him in the depths of the plant. He made a mental note to push Redtooth into this thing when he got out, and swam over to the walls. No luck climbing; the leaves were covered with tiny downward-pointing hairs, too short to get a grip on, and with a waxy coating which his wet paws slipped off and his claws couldn't dig into deep enough. He checked his tail for the flint he'd strapped there, and found it gone. The twine must have softened in the liquid and loosened. "Damn it, I knew I should have fixed that on better," he muttered to himself. "Maybe next time I'll get a metal one..."

Something frothy floated near him; inspection proved it to be the melting remains of a slug. Actually, now he looked, the pool was full of dead and dying insects and other small creatures. A shrivelled spider here, a thrashing centipede there... The bare skin on his paws and tail was starting to burn unpleasantly. He looked down, through the murky liquid; half-sunk in the sludgy black bottom, he saw bones.

A muffled voice called from outside, and shadows were visible through the leaves. "Chief! Are you alright?"

 _"I'm in the guts of a giant plant, what do you think, you fool?!"_ Cluny screeched at the top of his lungs, went under, and came up spitting. "Bleh! Get me out of this thing!"

"Can you cut your way out?" It was the first time Cluny had heard Shadow make any noise approximating a shout, and he had to strain to hear it.

"If I could, don't you think I'd have done it?" Cluny scratched at the leafy walls, gouging out chunks, but the walls were thick, and swimming in the stinking fluid with little air was weakening him. "Can you tell where I am? If I dig from here and you cut from there, I can get out!"

Shadow and Redtooth said nothing, but Cluny heard the sound of knives scraping leaves on the other side, and little by little the green light brightened as the wall thinned.

Finally, the leaves gave way, and Cluny emerged, followed by a rush of the sickly soup. He lay coughing on the forest floor, looked up at his thoroughly soaked followers, and experienced a feeling he never had before; being pleased to see Redtooth's stupid grin.


	6. #17: Tentacles

Splash! Codj burst up from the water, shaking his head, and trod water as he scowled at the laughing crewbeasts in the jollyboat. "Yah, think yer funny?"

Widge the ferret leaned over the side of the boat with a broad grin on his face. "'Course we do!" His friend Baul nodded and snickered.

"'S bad luck ter learn ter swim, y'know," said Firty the rat, nodding sagely. "Jus' means yer die o' thirst instead o' drownin'."

Codj responded with an obscene paw gesture and a yell of "Don't care, gemme back in da boat! I'm gonna freeze ta death 'ere!" The day was hot, but the water was indeed cold, as seawater is wont to be, and Codj was already shivering and trying to fluff his sodden fur. Nobody noticed the other movements beneath and around him in the rippling water.

"Keep yer fur on!" Widge reached for a rope, and stopped when he saw Codj kicking at something. "Summat up?"

"Somethin' - hee! - slimy on me leg, must be weeds..." Codj giggled involuntarily, and kicked again. "Eep, gerroff!... Huh?"

The long slimy something oozed up around his waist, accompanied by more. The tip of one came close to the surface, and he noticed suckers and mottled skin. He yelped and thrashed, trying to free himself, but the octopus simply latched on harder and regarded him curiously through one wide eye.

"Shit! Gerrit off me!" Codj wailed, kicking and yanking at the writhing limbs. Every time he detached one, two more would wrap more firmly around him, and the mollusc's body had by now oozed up to his chest.

A nasty smirk spread across Widge's snout. "'Ey, remember that time we sailed east? An' we saw all those pickchers with the pretty maids an' the..." He waved his paws wildly, and the rest of the boat's crew grinned as they remembered.

"Aw, it loves yer! Guess a slimy seabeast would think yer a pretty one!"

"If it's gonna lay eggs in yer, keep it above yer waist - more room where yer brain should be!"

 _"Not helping!"_ Codj shrieked, kicking the water into white foam and disappearing under the surface. He came up spluttering and coughing, hindered by the ropy tentacle around his throat. "Somebeast get a rope! A knife! Anythin', fer season's sake 'elp m-eeee!" His words trailed off into a scream of terror as a limb oozed under his belt, and he submerged again.

Firty grimaced. "Huh. I thought we was jes' jokin'..."

"Well, whaddya waitin' fer?" yelled Baul, grabbing for a rope. "Give 'im a paw, cap'n'll kill us if we let 'is brother die!"

"You crazy? I ain't goin' near that thing! Leastways not till it's done wirrim. Ugh..."

Vizka Longtooth chose that moment to lean over the side of the ship above them. "Yarr, wot's all the racket?"

"Um..." The jollyboat's crew looked at each other, and pointed as one at the frothing water. Codj surfaced again, screaming and sobbing, still unable to peel free and rapidly exhausting himself. The octopus's body had oozed inside his shirt, and his paws were bleeding where it had bitten him.

Vizka quickly tied a line to the rail, flung it over the side of the ship, and slid down it, swinging at the end to land in the boat, and belaboured the three crewbeasts with the handle of his mace, screaming "Help 'im, idjits, help 'im!" Widge and Baul threw out a line and Firty drew a knife; Codj managed to free one paw and catch the line, and was pulled back to the boat, still sobbing. Vizka grabbed his scruff and hauled him up, and he and Firty hacked at the struggling octopus until it detached and lay thrashing in the bottom of the boat. Codj collapsed, crying like a frightened cub and pawing at his body, as if unable to believe he was free. He found the end of Vizka's tail and cuddled it, as he had when he was very young. For once, Vizka, having seen what happened, didn't stop him.

Firty pointed at a trail of shreds of something leading to Codj's torn pocket. "What's dat?"

Codj opened his eyes and successfully controlled his voice enough to say "Oh, dried fish. I wiz 'ungry when we set out..."

"Ah, dere's yer problem!" Firty said, patting him gently. "So was it. Musta smelled da fish, see, it bit through right 'ere, an' it jes' wanted to 'ang on long enough ter finish eatin'. 'Twasn't... doin' wot we thought at all."

"Oh thank fates..." Codj uncurled, looked up at his brother, and giggled.

Vizka nudged him with a footpaw and grumbled "Good, now quit cryin', the sea's deep enough."

Codj took a vindictive delight in the octopus stew Glurma served that evening.


	7. #30: Monstrous

His bones are creaking out of shape, body growing and legs growing faster until his head pushes branches out of the way, scratching up his face. He clutches at his tail for comfort and it dissolves between his claws, his fur is showering the ground, leaving tattered tufts on his head and jaw. His skull bulges and his wails of pain and horror pour from a blunted, shrinking snout; his stomach churns in an unfamiliar manner, and he coughs up bile as he's seen foxes and weasels do, coating his shortened front teeth and sprouting canines. He claws at himself as if to peel the change away, and his claws fall out, replaced by useless flattened stubs. He tries to curl up, and his spine will no longer obey.

That damn seer Miggo is watching, smiling, twisting his claws and pulling Sneezewort's body into its new shape as he would a puppet's strings.

"I told yer not to cross me, but a toad's too good fer ya."

Sneezewort screams and wakes, strokes his familiar fur in relief, and presses closer to the snoring Lousewort's back, shivering.


	8. #33: Beaten Up/Bruising

When he was a pup, Martin one day complained of a terrible headache. His friend Timbal nodded sympathetically, and then kicked him in the shins. Martin used several words his grandmother would have clipped his ears for saying, and asked Timbal why he did that. Timbal responded "Well, now you don't care about your head hurting, do you?"

He thinks of that now, as he shields his head beneath paws with bloody knuckles and broken claws, his tail broken beneath the boots of the hulking rat. He kicks, and catches the rat's knees, knocking her off-balance. Her lanky mate clutches his broken snout in one paw and rains down blows on Martin with the stick in the other. Martin grabs the stick and pulls, the rat goes down, and they tussle on the ground.

Martin could draw his father's sword and stop this in seconds, but he doesn't want to. The rats were indeed robbing the farm, their ill-gotten gains spilling from the sack the male had hit him with and dropped mid-fight, but all they were taking was a few vegetables, nothing irreplaceable. He had found them skulking around the edge of the field, at the far side from the cabin in which the owners still slept obliviously; from their conversation he had decided they meant no direct harm to the family, merely to get the food and get out. He will not risk slaying them.

Eventually, the rats flee, bruised and battered, not bothering to pick up the sack of stolen vegetables. Martin ties the sack closed to protect the food inside from elements and insects, painfully and slowly stands up with the help of the discarded stick, and leaves without bothering to alert the owners. The rats will likely not be back for at least a while, and a hero needs no thanks.

Martin binds his wounds himself, trying not to think about a soft voice and slender paws which helped him before. He ties the bandage too tightly around his broken tail, and his memories and his heart hurt a little less.


	9. #1: Amputation

He wasn't going to make it. Agarnu sprawled face-down on the forest floor, weeping into the mulch. He hadn't noticed his injured leg had got caught between two roots until he'd fallen. Bad sign. Numbness might have been a blessed relief from the pain, but if he'd heard correctly in his lessons, it meant the limb couldn't be saved.

He had been fortunate in a way; he hadn't received a full dose of venom. If he had, he'd have died quickly. That might have been better, he thought, wondering how long he could be trapped. Inhaling the leaf mould had refreshed his sense of smell, and he wished it hadn't. Oh seasons, the _stink._ He buried his snout in the musty soil again instead, held a pawful to his nose as he curled up to examine the bloated blackened mess of his footpaw. It was cold as a dead fish, and when he pressed lightly on it, clear fluid and another burst of that carrion smell emerged. He tried again to pull free, but the blood and pus was too sticky to lubricate the way, and the swelling was only getting worse.

He didn't know if any of his father's crew had survived, so he couldn't rely on rescue. He didn't know if the snakes had survived, or if there might be other predators or territorial locals around. He didn't know how long it would take him to starve to death, or if his injuries would kill him first.

His sword had fallen out of his reach when he got trapped. He stretched as far as he could, and his claws merely pushed the hilt further away.

Agarnu swallowed hard, twisted his head down to his knee, and started chewing.


	10. #5: Mask/Covered eyes/Covered mouth

They'd bound a rag over his eyes before they dragged him away, and when he cried out they bound his mouth shut too. As he was forced to walk he tried to memorise the route, but the taunts and shouting and the crack of a willow switch on his back drowned out the forming memories of his footpaws' movements.

They never took the blindfold off, and only pulled the gag aside to force water and food down his throat, even as he tried to spit out the wilting vegetables and sticky fishbones or, worse, the meat of beasts he'd heard screaming seconds before. Sometimes he hoped to choke on it. He fainted when they sawed his tail off, and he realised where it went when they fed him the next morning.

He broke the ropes on his paws, and kept it hidden until nightfall. A filthy cloak, stolen from a sleeping fox, blended him in with the dark and dirt, and the few vermin awake saw nothing as he slid from one to the next and slipped a blade into their necks.

It took him days to get home. By the last day he had to crawl. He was taken inside and fed and bathed and bandaged, and when he was asked, he put on the invisible mask of his old self and said "I'm fine."


	11. #21: Breathplay

"N-no, please... aaccck..."

"Head up!" Dotti grabbed the stoat's whiskers and yanked up, pointing his snout at the sky. The captives had been lined up by height, kneeling on the sand, each at the footpaws of a hare holding a length of rope. Brocktree stood behind them, just in the peripheral vision of the rat at one end of the line. The remaining hares picked up the discarded vermin's uniforms, bundled them, and hurled them into the sea. A weasel tried to cover himself and Southpaw kicked his elbow until he returned his paws to behind his back, where the hare firmly bound them.

The vermin tensed as something pressed to the backs of their necks, some panicking and trying to get up before their respective hares held them still. It proved to be only a long piece of wood, not a blade, but this did not relax them, and they were soon proved right to be fearful. A spearhaft matching the one behind them was hooked under their chins, and the huge paws of Lord Brocktree twisted the metal heads as if they were paper; within seconds, the necks of the captives were tightly gripped, their chins held up, the breath of some unfortunates with broader necks already coming in rasping gurgles.

"I'd advise you to stay calm," said the badger sternly, grabbing a sobbing weasel's ear. The weasel was drooling, breathing rapidly through her nose. "Deep breaths and you'll be fine. I'd rather you didn't choke now. Unlike you, I don't want to slay a defenceless creature."

"That's it, fellers, deep breaths and stop squirmin' so much." Dotti strutted around the end of the line and along in front until she reached the particularly frightened-looking stoat. "Stop moping, bucko," she said, nudging him in the belly with her footpaw. Something brushed her ankle; she looked down and leapt away, screaming in disgust. "Oh, I do say! I know I'm a fatal beauty but that's a bit much, really! Just be glad I won't kick a bound beast, you-"

"Eh?" Brocktree looked, and the stoat cringed, ears crimson, unable to curl up as he obviously wanted to do. "Ah. Nothing to worry about, Dotti, it looks like I tightened this too far. That happens sometimes when a beast is strangled, something to do with blood flow."

"Really? Seems silly, it's in the opposite direction from his heart than his neck is."

"Yes. Ask the healers why, I don't know."

"Oh. Oh dear, my apologies, stoaty feller," said Dotti, bowing briefly and ignoring the stoat's furious glare as every other beast in sight, woodlander or vermin, stared at him. Some beasts burst into snickers, and he couldn't even turn his head to see who. He curled his tail up for cover and shifted his legs, which didn't help, even when the slightly loosened restraints slid to his shoulders and he could breathe again.

~

When submerged, wooden spearhafts tend to swell up. In this case, the ones pressed across the throats of the defeated vermin were squeezing harder with every step. A rat passed out, and the others in the row cursed and struggled with the deadweight. A wave knocked them over and covered them, choking them, filling their mouths and noses with stinging salt and leaving them sure for eternal seconds that they would drown until it passed and they were able to struggle up again.

The icy water was helping a little, but it wasn't cooling the unlucky stoat's blush.


	12. #8: Undead/Zombie

Y'know, we might not be so different. Well, we are one way. You squeakers taste better.

Nah, fer serious, I mean it. Why'd you go a-wanderin'? No matter, 'twoulda turned out far better fer both of us if we'd stayed home. I see all yer scars, that mean you was lucky or unlucky till ye met me? Life's hard that way. Not sorry I did it, but sometimes I wish I didn't 'ave to. Wish good beasts could roam safe widout me watchin' the wilds. Like I said, life's 'ard.

Heh, lucky you. Quick an' painless, more'n I woulda got. Another way we ain't so different. Reckon I been dead a dozen seasons an' me body's not caught up. It's hot an' I still shiver sometimes. Is bein' dead this cold inside? Is Hellgates as bad as the dreams that plague me? Don't know whether I hope it is or that it ain't. Some o' you vermin I do. The ones made me this way. You, I dunno. Didn't know yer well enough. I don't judge. Not like I 'ave any hope of headin' elsewhere. Ah well, jus' more reason to enjoy meself 'ere!

They say everybeast destroys the thing they love. Is that ever more true than wid cookin'? Good food is love, friendship, family, an' to feel it ye must eat it. Aw, I'm ramblin'. Brother dear allus told me not to talk wid me gob full.

Want some? Ye're delicious, I tell ye. No? Yer missin' out. Still, more fer me.

Mmm. Lemme jes' get me whiskers clean. There, now. All done, we're even. No more hurtin' from or to ye. Could we be pals now, p'raps, now it's done?

It gets breezy in the eve round 'ere, don't it? C'mere, it's awright. Been a long time since I just held another beast. Reckon I need this, an' after today so d'you, I think. Ah, yer still warm from the fire. An' wet, eurgh, lemme jes' tuck me cloak round... Ahh. Better. See, we c'n get along now. You rats ain't so bad when yer quiet like this. I think I like you. D'you like me? Was that a nod? Aw, yer sweet. Come wid me tomorrow? Don't fret, nothin's gonna hurt yer no more, not while I'm 'ere.

Already asleep? Yeah, I oughta be too.

Nice fire, I likes a good fire...


	13. #6: Surgery

Romsca, stripped to the fur, sat back on the table in the smoky, smelly apothecary's shop, and eyed the grog bottle in the paw of the bent old fox. "Gonna pass that over 'ere, mate?"

"This? This is for me," said the crone, shaking it disapprovingly. "Drink makes ye bleed more. I need it to steady me nerves afore all the yellin' ye'll do. Take these." She tossed over a bottle of strange-smelling herbs and a thick wooden rod covered in teethmarks. Romsca scowled and drank the bottle down.

"Cap'n, quit loiterin'. I'm a grown beast, I don't need ye to hold me paw."

Conva emerged reluctantly from the shadows. "Sorry. Just... are you sure? This isn't exactly reversible."

"I'm sure." Romsca lay down, placing a paw on her forehead. "Woo, dizzy. Decent stuff yer gave me, fox."

The healer started shaving Romsca's belly, clicking her tongue in thought. "I can give ye somethin' stronger, knock ye right out."

Romsca shivered at the icy fluid poured over the shaved patch, and said "Like Hellgates yer will. I'm not trustin' meself to a stranger wid a blade widout watchin' wot yer do wid it."

The fox shoved the wooden rod between the ferret's teeth, and started to cut.

Near the end, when Romsca almost bit through the rod, Conva did take her paw, and she didn't push him away.

~

"Yes, I'm bloody sure I won't regret it!" Romsca snapped as Conva led her through the alleys of Sampetra, back to the ship. "Look, I'm a ferret. I won't be tied down by kits, heat smell among corsairs ain't the safest thing, an' even if I did wanna rely on me blade skills to prevent problems there I got too much I wanna do ter die o' the blood sickness."

"Good, and I'm sorry. You're my first mate, I want you to be well. Who else will help me run that bunch of idiots?" Conva readjusted his grip on Romsca's waist as he realised his claws were too close to her fresh stitches. "Do you have enough of that willow-bark stuff? Sure you can keep the wound clean? Are you sure you should be walking?"

"I've took wounds afore, cap'n, I know wot I'm doin'," Romsca said, voice slurring a little. The beginning of surgical shock and the end of the anaesthetic were combining. "Oof... ow."

"That's it, we're hiring a cart."

A rat pulling a cart accepted a bracelet in trade for a lift, and Romsca lay on the wooden seat with her head in Conva's lap, trying not to pull her stitches. Her nose was dry and pale, and blood was seeping between her stitches and staining her shirt, but she pressed hard on the wound and smiled.

"Nothin's gonna hold me back now."


	14. #12: Parasite

"I have given suck, and know  
How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me:  
I would, while it was smiling in my face,  
Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums,  
And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you  
Have done to this."  
- _Macbeth_

The otter was taking to fish well, as otters did, but was not ready to live on it. Sawney had explained at knifepoint that _his_ cub needed milk, and not the greensap kind; to be safe, mustelid milk. She had opened her mouth to refuse, and he moved the knife to point at Gruven.

Grissoul watched her feed the pups each day and took the otter away as soon as he finished suckling, keeping guard over him; pointlessly, Antigra thought. Of course she would not slay him. _She_ was not the Taggerung. That would have to wait till Gruven had grown. Perhaps Sawney thought nursing him would help her accept him. He was wrong. Tagg peered up at her with innocent unfocused eyes and she hated the riverspawned brat all the more. Fat and sleek and shiny as a leech, he was, and was sucking away the tribe's sense like one too. How she wanted to crush him like one.

Otter pups grew large and fast. She had lost too much weight from him drinking it away, Gruven was thin from competing with him, and she always had a terrible thirst afterwards. The infants' teeth were coming in, tiny white needles, and blood started staining her dress, along with souring milk smudges on the inside and worse on the outside when their swaddling cloths leaked or they drank too fast and brought it back. The infants didn't seem to notice the blood in her milk. She bathed fully clothed in the river at least once daily, and ignored the taunts. Most vermin mothers didn't mind, but she would not have the stink of the riverdog on her for longer than necessary.

When Tagg cried, she soothed him and herself with a rhythmic murmur of "cuckoo, cuckoo", and he quieted and slept unknowingly. She found leeches in the river before Grissoul collected them, or plucked ticks from the pelts of others, and surreptitiously placed them on the otter's soft pawpads or in his ears, gleefully watching them grow as fat and flushed as he was as he whined and tried to wriggle free of his blanket to scratch. Perhaps it would weaken him, slow his growth; even if not it would keep her sane.

Grissoul slowly boiled fresh white fish over a low heat until it was soft enough for the infant otter. Antigra had no time after hunting for the chief's and otter's food and caring for her own pup, and nobeast to trust with watching either Gruven or a fire while she tended to the other. She tore up stale bread and sinewy birdflesh with her teeth, and sucked the resulting pieces into mulch. Gruven wailed, and she let her precious baby nuzzle her lips apart and feed.


	15. #16: Bondage

Lask Frildur was a fine specimen of a Monitor, but still very young, and was ashamed to realise it had taken only forty rats to bring him down. Ten were dead and three more soon would be, and more would likely follow. Monitor bites festered, and the bleeding never stopped. That was little comfort, as he lay spreadeagled in chains held down with solid staples which would take even his strength a while to shift, a cunningly-crafted assembly of metal bars forming a tight cage over his snout. He growled, and a rat turned a key to tighten the cage. Up close he saw the dullness of their eyes, the slackness of their expressions. What was that about? Whatever it was, they showed no fear, nor paid any attention to their dead; they merely gave perfunctory but efficient assistance to the wounded and surrounded him in a half-circle. Somebeast was coming.

The somebeast in question proved to be a marten, quite a young one insofar as Lask could tell with mammals; he certainly couldn't tell its gender. It walked with a swagger, the bushy tail which would be useless as a weapon swishing behind it and giving off a soft cloud of musk and rosewater. Its fur was groomed, its clothes were silk, and when it smiled Lask wrinkled his snout as he saw its fragile little needle fangs were sparkling clean. He couldn't believe this tiny ball of fluff and vanity was also a predator. Prettiness was for flowers, not fighters, and the sword at the marten's hip showed it at least considered itself a fighter. Dirty sneaking squashy little egg-thieves, mammals were, and this one looked more fur than meat. Some of the rats looked nice and crunchy though.

The marten looked him up and down and pulled a face, then snapped its claws. A rat approached, expression flowing into his features, and said "Captain?"

"Your latest effort? I see it's strong, certainly." A male voice, then. A mammal might have commented on the floral perfume, but the cue did not cross the species boundary enough to occur to Lask; Monitor females had as little interest in such things as the males did.

"Aye, sir. Does it please yer?"

The marten nodded to the other rats. "Wash its face." They fetched full waterskins and sloshed the contents over Lask's face, washing away the camouflage coating of mud and dung young Monitors cultivated to block their sight and scent from prey and territorial adults. From the marten's sneer, he found the uncovered result not much more pleasing. The feeling was mutual, and Lask tried to force his jaws open to growl. A gesture from the marten and the cage was loosened enough for him to speak. "Your name, lizard?"

"Lazk Frildur, and to you my name iz death!" Lask heaved with all his strength at his chains, succeeding in creaking forward a clawslength. "Look well on thiz faze, it will be the lazt thing you zee, tiny warmbloodz!" A gust of the lizard's vile breath hit the marten's face, and he backed up, ears flat, suppressing a retch. He didn't quite make it far enough to avoid the tip of the reptile's tongue slithering over his nosetip and up towards his eye. Lask felt him shudder violently, and smirked to himself as the mammal wiped frantically at his face with his sleeve. He was right, the thing didn't even taste good.

"Whoof! Augh, that was awful. Am I to take it you're venomous?"

"Venom iz but the ztart, zoft thing. Venom juzt keepz the wound open until the rot zetz in!" Lask licked his fangs and snarled, dripping stinking saliva to the ground. "If what'z left of my lazt meal doezn't finizh you I'll zhove you in the dirtiezt part of the river and let the zewage do the job! Ever eaten cattle, tiny cruzhable one? Monitorz have! Ever zoftened your prey up while they're ztill alive? Ever ztalked them for dayz while they get zlower and zlower, devoured the bitz that fall off them as they die? Ever let the black zlime that'z left of their flezh drip through your zcented pelt while they zcream?"

The marten appeared less than terrified. In fact, he seemed interested. Out of curiosity and confusion, Lask quieted and let the marten approach him, and did not try to bite when the pampered little paws explored his face, noticeably avoiding his mouth.

"So that smell isn't a sign you're dying yourself. Good. Hm, you seem fit and strong enough. Terrible breath. Such dull scales, too. Yes, I think we can safely say you're fates-forsaken hideous." A smile crawled over the creature's muzzle, and he breathed "Sublime. Are you looking for a job?"

Lask spluttered. "... What?"

The marten bowed. "I am Captain Ublaz, and I've been in search of somebeast suitably terrifying to assist me. Half the world and I've not found one species as gloriously, nightmarishly gruesome as yours. Mere dullness is one thing..." He waved a paw at the surrounding rats, and preened himself. "But beauty appears far greater with a stronger contrast. I can assure you you'll be well taken care of. Riches and adventure await! Tell me, Lask, if I may call you that, how can you refuse?"

"Onze my clawz are free I'll refuze by ripping your head off and ramming it down what'z left of your neck, you pompouz zlime. Lazk Frildur doez not take orderz from fluffy pillowz, and no 'contrazt' iz great enough to make you anything but revolting, warmblood!"

Ublaz sighed. "Fine, we shall do this the hard way." He took a firm hold of the cage on the lizard's head, leaned forward, and whispered "Look into my eyes."

Lask did, and was lost.

Very soon, the cage was unlocked and the chains unwound; no further resistance would occur for now. He'd wake the Monitor later when he had food and gold at paw as an incentive for a less volatile reaction. Ublaz chuckled softly as the remaining rats - another was dead by now - gathered the bindings and led the docile lizard away. Bonds on the body could be escaped. It was so much easier to bind their minds.


	16. #15: Insects

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know a scorpion is not an insect. Written after endless repeats of The Devil's Carnival songs "Trust Me" and "Prick Goes the Scorpion's Tale".

"So, liddle Skiv, heard the tale o' the scorpion an' the frog?"

Mariel remained silent, walking down the nearly dark stairs one pace ahead of the jovial searat, concentrating on putting one paw in front of the other on the slippery stone. She grunted in pain as he yanked the rope around her paws.

"I asked yew a question, lass. Speak."

Mariel cleared her throat and said "I've heard of the snake and the frog. What's a scorpion?"

"Oho, ye'll find out."

A pair of silverfish ran over Mariel's bare footpaw, and she twitched in disgust. Darkness, cold, and insects held no fears for her, but she was familiar enough with Gabool's ways to know he must be planning worse. She took another step, and a cockroach crunched beneath it. She felt a little guilt at that. Now her eyes had adjusted to the dim glow of the lantern in her captor's paw, she saw beetles and spiders and ants on the walls and stairs. It might have been her imagination, but many of them seemed to be fleeing in the opposite direction from their route.

Her footpaw slipped and she almost plunged into the dark pit beneath, a muffled squeak escaping her throat. Gabool pulled the rope taut and she stumbled backwards. "Aha, liddlun, ye don't want to fall 'ere." He sounded genuinely concerned, but more in the manner of a beast protecting a treasured possession than a life. "Just like the scorpion didn't want to fall in the river, me dear." Just as she relaxed, he pushed her; she came to the end of the rope with a painful jolt, paws yanked up hard until she thought her shoulders would pop out of their sockets. Gabool lowered her down to the cold and filthy floor. She blinked into the darkness as he continued talking, his voice almost drowning out a rattling of what sounded like claws on the floor.

The clattering sound moved closer, and Mariel heard another tapping sound above her. She looked up, and saw Gabool was tapping on the side of the lantern. More of the fireflies within woke, and their glow increased, turning the dungeon a murky green. "So the scorpion asked the big ole frog to swim 'em both across the river..." he said softly, patronisingly, as if telling stories to an infant.

Mariel looked back into the shadows ahead, and froze as the edge of a sickle-shaped claw emerged. Gabool chuckled darkly as she swallowed hard and pressed against the wall, eyes on the horror before her. Its segmented body was bigger than her; eight tiny eyes fixed wickedly on her, and a bead of venom hung from the razor-sharp tail tip above it. Mariel was far from a coward, but she had never seen anything like this. Fat fangs gleamed, ready to suck her carcass dry.

"The frog asks 'how do I know ye won't sting me?'"

Mariel felt herself being suddenly pulled back up with another shock of pain in her shoulders, just as the claws snapped shut a hairsbreadth from her snout, snapped again at her footpaw, and the stinger tail struck the wall.

"And the scorpion says..." Gabool's hoarse, mocking laughter echoed in her ear. "''Cos my plan is dead widout ye'." He spun her away from the drop, drawing her close and hugging her, patting her, in a way that made her shudder as she unwillingly thought of her father. "Same here, liddle Skiv. I shan't slay yer now. I'll be tellin' yer daddy of this. See if a new thing I could do to yer changes his mind. Ye can trust yer old uncle searat better'n a scorpion, dear." His gold teeth glittered, and he pulled on her rope leash. "Trust me like I _trussed_ you. Ahaharrr..."

Mariel realised she was gripping his shirt collar, and let go, hating herself and him.


	17. #3: Vore/Cannibalism

Filorn walked into the infirmary, saw the mouse's head poking out of her son's mouth, and almost had a heart attack before Nimbalo waved a paw from behind Deyna's lips and grinned at her.

"'Ello, miz Deyna's mum!"

"Good grief, lads, what are you doing?" Filorn spluttered, clasping her paws to her heart. "I thought those terrible vermin had had far too much influence over you for a moment there!"

Deyna put down the stack of books in his paws and pulled Nimbalo out of his mouth with a wet plopping sound. "Mmf. Sorry, Mum. I was helping with some tidying, my paws were full and, well..." He pointed to the heavy bandage on Nimbalo's leg. "I don't trust his balance right now so I didn't want to let him ride on my shoulder, and he came up with a different idea." He nudged Nimbalo and said "Your fault for falling."

"Yore fault fer droppin' me!"

"I could just hold onto your scruff, why do you need to actually sit in my mouth?"

"'Tis fun! Like bein' in a crow's nest on board ship."

"Just as wet as being on board ship too, I'd think."

Nimbalo laughed. Filorn sighed and shook her head. "Just make sure to bathe before dinner, Nimbalo, the only food which needs Deyna's spit on it is the stuff in his mouth." She picked up the laundry basket and left.

Deyna sighed. "Well done, Nimbalo, now my mother thinks we're both insane."

Nimbalo snickered, and Deyna frowned. Long, long ago, as the stories went, in the days before speech and reason, otters and badgers had eaten mice. The first Lords of Salamandastron had stepped away from cannibalism, sworn to protect the land from those that would ravage it and to honour the lives of all their potential allies within it, and other badgers had followed suit in a trickle, then a flood. Otters had always preferred fish, and abandoning other meats had come more easily for them. While many stoats, weasels, ferrets, and rats did the same, many did not, and Tagg was still lurking deep in Deyna's mind. How much _had_ the Juska influenced him?

As Deyna thought, Nimbalo wriggled free of his paw and back into his mouth. "C'mon, mate, it's fine. You dunno wot you big beasts are missin', I could sleep 'ere."

Deyna pulled him out again and said "Don't. I need you to stab me in the gums if I try to bite down or swallow."

"Ah, I'm not worried!" Nimbalo said airily and patted Deyna's nose. "You like me bein' around more'n you like my taste."

Deyna looked at Nimbalo's grin, and relaxed. Trust was still a novelty to him, and it was sweet. He smiled back, and tucked Nimbalo into his cheek, closing his teeth carefully to avoid catching his friend's tail. Nimbalo folded his paws on Deyna's lower lip and rested his head on them, and Deyna scritched his ears with a claw.


	18. #32: Scarring/Disfiguration

"Why do you wear that mask, fox?"

Slagar touched the cloth over his ruined cheek and said "My own reasons, sire."

"And what may they be? Tell me."

"Deception. Disguise. Many reasons, sire." Slagar kept his gaze steady on the mouth of the statue, and caught a brief glimpse of a gleaming eye.

Malkariss was silent for a long moment, and then said "Come up here. Nadaz, snuff that torch."

In darkness, Slagar climbed up to the mouth, finally finding the great stone fangs and hauling himself up onto the tongue. A warm presence was beside him. The living Malkariss. Unsure what to do, Slagar remained still until he felt paws on his face. He pulled away with a snarl, and a hiss echoed it. "Stay still, fox! I'm entitled to see who I'm employing! Nadaz, if he tries to run, stop him!" Slagar remembered the army of rats outside and stilled again.

The unfamiliar paws crawled over his face, claws sliding into the eye and mouth openings of his mask and brushing the scar tissue beneath. Malkariss explored further until he found the fastenings, and the mask soon slid off, leaving Slagar's face exposed to the probing paws. He felt nothing but pressure on the ruined half of his face, and that only faintly, contrasting with the rough claws combing his fur on the unharmed side. Wetness touched his chin and he realised Malkariss' claws had trailed through the saliva which dripped from the paralysed side of his mouth; soon they pushed inside his mouth and ran along his lips and teeth, up the curve of his eternal fixed grin. He shivered, feeling violated, angry... curious.

Slagar reached out in the dark and before Malkariss realised it he had clasped his paws over the ferret's face. Both froze, Malkariss' paws still on Slagar's scarred face, Slagar grasping the flattened snout and protruding tongue of the polecat, claws pressing into the sagging jowls. He shifted closer and was able to sense the warmth and scent outlining the repulsively bloated body.

Malkariss' grip loosened a tiny amount, and Slagar returned the favour, each slowly and cautiously releasing the other, still braced for an attack. A horrible wet gurgling emitted from the polecat's throat, and Slagar realised it was a laugh. "Any other beast would be slain for that, fox. But I suppose your continued presence is acceptable for now."

It wasn't friendship, far from it, not even really liking, and Slagar wasn't sure what to call it, but he understood the feeling. It was reassuring to know he was not entirely alone in his reasons for remaining hidden. He reached out again, this time to clasp Malkariss' paw.


	19. #23: Nosebleed

"Oh, I say, m'dear! Are you quite alright?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

Clecky put a claw to his nosetip, and said "Your snout, Grath, it's bleeding. Did you bump it, wot?"

"Oh, that!" Grath's paw came away from her whiskers with blood on it. "It's nothing, really."

"I wouldn't call that much blood nothing, it's on your tunic," Clecky said, offering a pawkerchief. "Does that happen a lot? I know some beasts get that."

"Um, it's not happened before." Grath shifted her footpaws, and mumbled "I'm fine, really."

"Well, can't blame a chap for worryin' when you leave the room unharmed and come back with a spouting snoutbleed..." Clecky's brow furrowed.

"What?"

"Where'd your feller go? Inbar, isn't that his name? He left with you. Didn't he help you?"

"It wasn't bleeding till he left. Sometimes it takes a moment to start." Clecky's brow furrowed, and Grath hurriedly added "No, no, it's not like that, he didn't...!"

"Ah, good. Sorry to doubt him, I just worried for a mo' there. I don't know him very well yet, and I know you can look after yourself, but... well, I know you've had hard times and I feared the worst. Foolish of me, if he tried anything you'd know better than I how to stop him, wot!" He lightly thumped her back, and noticed what the blood had distracted him from. "Your fur's damp - had a good swim?"

Grath dabbed at her nose again and turned to make sure her awkward smile was hidden, remembering wrestling in the water, finally letting Inbar hold her down, his kisses moving from her ears to her snout and finally his teeth latching on and holding as if he'd never let her go. Clecky would probably understand if she explained, but she had no desire to be the one to enlighten him; she settled for saying "Yes."


	20. #24: Bloodbath

The name and popular rumour to the contrary, the _Goreleech_ was not painted with real blood. Dried blood didn't stay that shade of red, as he knew well, and while a herd or two of cows could probably provide enough blood for a ship that size the logistics of corralling and killing same would be a nightmare, Daskar reflected. The planks had been soaked in pigment before their use in building the boat, and sun and saltwater had faded them a little, but the colour still leaked into the sea as they went, leaving a light orange-brown-red trail that was very much like blood spilled in water.

Also contrary to popular rumour, Daskar had never bathed in the blood of a hundred mousemaids. If he wanted to fill a whole bathtub, it would be far more efficient to use a smaller number of, for example, rabbits, and gender was immaterial. Far too much trouble, though, and he had no desire to imagine the smell. Creatures came up with all sorts of ridiculous ideas. Not that this was a bad thing. If they made themselves afraid, it saved him effort.

He sat on his bunk and combed out the fine sand from his fur. Fresh water was far too precious at sea to bathe in, and sand worked just as well to remove old grease and musk. He dipped his claws in the steaming goblet beside him and ran the thick red liquid behind his ears, where it would dry and the clots could be combed away, leaving just a light smell which could be cleaned away before it became too foul. Satisfied, he sipped from the still-warm cup. A far better use.


	21. #14: Self-Harm

Fermald hadn't wanted to agree with him, but she had no choice; Graylunk knew he was insane, but he was not stupid, and he knew there was nothing more the infirmary could do. It was time. In the night he slipped away, taking no food or blanket - why would he need them? - and ran.

He made it further than he had thought he would, but it took less than a day before he had to stop, legs shaking too much and vision too blurred to go further. He found an outcrop of rock in which to hide, and curled up like an infant in the nest, making himself as comfortable as possible on the soft ground between the stones. He wondered; how long would he have to wait?

Hours crawled by, night turned into day which turned to night again, and cold rain began to fall. Graylunk had heard freezing wasn't a bad way to go. He couldn't remember where he'd heard it, but he'd been told in a beast's last moments they would feel warmth and no pain at all. It sounded nice. Might not be cold enough though. He licked raindrops off his whiskers. Dehydration was far harder, he knew that one firstpaw from life at sea. Starvation would take far too long, and that reminded him of other possibilities; he had no wish to meet his end thanks to a larger predator.

He had brought no food, but he had brought a knife. He pulled it from his sleeve and tested the edge, examined his scarred face in the reflection on the blade, put the tip to his wrist. Better to be sure and swift. He was hurting nobeast else, for who would miss him?

Fur and skin parted slowly beneath the blade, red spilling and the wound yawning like a mouth, and he thought of Fermald, but she had known he would never return. With luck, she would never find out about this, and he would not have hurt her more.


	22. #9: Skeleton/Bones

Her belly was softer than it should be, and she noticed the bitter iron smell before the surprisingly mild cramp. She put a paw to her thigh, found it wet, and screamed.

Buckler came running, and found Clarinna sitting on her bed, clutching something, a blood-streaked wet patch spreading on her skirt. He took one step closer, and stopped, shocked, as he saw what she held; fragile pieces of bone and cartilage, wrapped in shrivelled sticky membrane. Between her claws peeked two half-formed and tiny skulls, the spines behind them held together by the skin, and fleshy little stumps where limbs should be.

It was rare, but not unknown, for this to happen, more usually among female Long Patrollers on active duty. The body could sense danger before the mind could, it was said; the mother's instinct would react of its own accord, and all sources of energy for fight or flight would be pressed into service whether the body's owner wanted them to or not. Mostly it happened before the offspring was developed far and the soft boneless form would be completely gone or unrecognisable, but Clarinna had been unlucky. Should an infant be at too much risk of harm, the mother's body would ensure it never would be again.

Buckler reached out to her. Clarinna turned away; her grip on the little bones tightened, and there was a crack as her claw accidentally pierced a brittle skull. She froze. Buckler sat on the bed beside her, not sure whether to look at her tearstained face or the last remnants of his brother's bloodline.

"It's alright. They're with me still." Clarinna rubbed her belly. "May you never be unhappy, loves. My heart is your burrow, my blood is your river, my bones are your trees. Run free in them and never know suffering. You'll be safe forever here."

~

 _"And I will take your bones and with them build a home"_ \- Nicole Dollanganger, "Cries of the Elephant Man Bones"


	23. #11: Conjoined Bodies

When any of their pups had a disagreement not vicious enough to result in death but loud and long-lasting enough to aggravate those around them, the ratwives would tie their tails together and leave them that way until they wore themselves out scuffling. Pairs were most common, but groups were not unknown. Mokkan had once seen a dozen squabbling rittens left like that for three weeks; they learned to move as one to get to food and water, and would walk paw-in-paw in pairs or groups for a full month afterwards. He had heard that some had died like that, and worse, that some had lived, had bound their minds together as their tails were until the knots in both became unbreakable. Rat kings, the stories called them, and they slithered through the nightmares of the castle's population often.

Silth had never done that to her pups. She always said if they must kill each other they'd get no help from her.

At the dinner table, the Marlfox pups competed for food with the viciousness befitting the fighters they were growing into, but as befitted the offspring of the queen, they used their cutlery. Ziral and Gelltor fenced with their knives, Vannan drove a fork into the back of Predak's thieving paw. Lantur, at the foot of the table, found their vanished father's signet ring in the stomach of her fish; she hid it in her sleeve and remained silent for the rest of the evening. Mokkan thought of the book their tutor had shown them that day; an old searat's log of tales from distant lands, written up in delicate calligraphy and illustrated in jewel-toned inks on Silth's orders. He had half-listened to the sickly romantic story they ended on, but had caught a particular image from it. In the lands beyond the sunrise it was said destined mates would be bound forever by an invisible red string leading through their paws to each other's hearts. Ziral had asked how it could be both invisible and red, Lantur had painted vivid verbal pictures of strangulation and cheesewire-like beheadings, and the lesson had devolved into laughter.

Slowly and creakily, the queen stood up and took one of her increasingly rare walks around the table. From Ziral at her left paw, around the table and to Mokkan at her right, she paced, eyes boring into her offsprings' backs. She paused to pile more bread and fish on Lantur's and Ascrod's plates, and the pups scowled at each other when she moved on. She always wanted them to eat more; so they would be big strong fighters, she said, and fatter than she was, they all guessed. When she reached Mokkan's seat, she stopped. He slowly put his fork down, put off his food by his mother's breathing down his neck. He was growing fast; when standing he would be almost as tall as her by now. Her paw slunk onto his shoulder and squeezed the developing muscle.

"So like your father," she murmured, glancing around the table. "And growing so fast. You all are. I'll be expecting grandpups some day soon, and plenty of them. I had to suffer seven births of fat and fighting brats, why should you all escape?" She chuckled at the horrified looks of the female cubs, and the males snickered and stuck their tongues out at their sisters. "Less of that," Silth said, and clipped Mokkan round the ear. "You've got your parts to play in it too."

"We know where babies come from, mother," Gelltor scoffed, flicking peas at Ascrod. "So are you sending Mokkan off courting now his voice is dropping?"

"Sending him away for it? Oh no, no," said Silth, shaking her head and scratching lightly at Mokkan's nape. "I shan't have you bringing home any old trash from off the island and making ugly common cubs! Ziral, grow faster. Don't keep your brother waiting."

She left before the cubs could work out what she meant, and when they did, one by one, they dropped their cutlery and stared at each other in frightened disgust.

Mokkan's dreams had become strange and restless recently, but that night they were worse. The new dreams melded with the old and he found himself embraced by his sisters who in turn were bound to his brothers, tails melting together and all entangled with bloody strings, and more linking them to their mother who pulled the strings like those of marionettes. For the first time since he had realised in his toddlerhood that Silth would not come to comfort him, Mokkan woke up screaming.


	24. #19: Pet-Play

Mokug sat beneath the table, as always, hugging his knees, waiting for his master to remember his presence so he would be fed. His stomach rumbled at the smell of hot fish soup, and the ferret rumbled a chuckle in turn. The hamster shivered as Sarengo's big footpaw ran up his back and the toeclaws scratched gently behind his ears. He hated it when the king did that; it was as if he wasn't even worth the trouble of the king bending down to pat him with his handpaws, and it wasn't unusual for it to be followed with a kick.

"Hungry, pet?"

Mokug crawled out from beneath the table and remained on all fours, looking up at Sarengo with the most pleading expression he could manage. No speaking allowed. No standing upright without permission. Even when obliged to crawl, he would be punished for dirtying the nice clothes the king put him in. If he was cute, he would not be hit as hard. He was too old and too thin to be as effortlessly cute now as he used to be, and right now the black eye made it even harder.

Sarengo picked up a chunk of warm bread and dipped it in the soup, and held it out just out of Mokug's reach. Mokug knew the routine; he sat up on his haunches, clasped his paws over his heart, and tilted his head. The king tossed the bread at him, laughing when it bounced off his nose and clapping when he caught it before it hit the floor. Mokug wiped the soup off his nose and stuffed the bread in his cheeks, making sure not to swallow it. If he did, there'd be no more to come. The bread went mushy and cool in his saliva, and swallowing it now would be disgusting, but better than nothing.

The king's meal was soon finished, a few more scraps being tossed Mokug's way and stuffed in his pouches. Sarengo poked Mokug's face with amusement. "Ah, so much in your mouth and I see not a trace. Vhere does it all go, mine little one? Oh, I forget dey vere empty to shtart dis evenink. Feeding day, is it not?" Mokug shivered. He dreaded feeding day.

In the middle of the table was a large metal cauldron, the lid still on. Sarengo raised the lid, exposing the inside piled high with food. Most of it was still-fresh scraps; bread crusts, carrot tops, apple cores. Whole vegetables and chunks of bread and fish were mixed in here and there. Nothing among the scraps was outright disgusting, and it was a far better variety than most slaves ever saw. It wasn't the food that Mokug hated. It was how he was expected to eat it. He felt bloated and queasy just looking.

Sarengo watched him expectantly; when he didn't immediately begin, the ferret took a pawful of food and offered it, smiling in the way which Mokug knew could rapidly turn to a snarl. He sighed inwardly, lowered his snout to his master's paw, and began stuffing the first of his next three days' food into his pouches.


End file.
